Sweet Tooth
by Natural Born Sinner
Summary: On the surface, Piper was a normal, friendly 26 year old. But underneath the carefully constructed mask she made for herself, was something dark and deadly. A force that drove her to do terrible things...to terrible people. And a certain someone's got his eye on her.
1. Intro

**This story is in the process of being rewritten, and is turning out much better than the first version. Well, at least I hope so, but I'll let you be the judge of that. Thanks for reading!**

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><p>I wiped down the counter for the hundredth time since I arrived at work.<p>

It was unusually slow this morning, and after glancing at the clock once more, I sighed and sat on the old folding chair hidden behind the register. Its height blocked my view, leaving only the sound of the small bell above the door as the only indication that someone had walked in. The din of the television in the back room and the quiet hum of the mixers were the only sounds that filled my ears, and I was thankful for the reprieve from my usual busy schedule.

I folded my hands behind my head and sank into the uncomfortable dip worn into the chair, kicking my feet up on a low shelf occupied by random items that hadn't yet found their place in the bakery. I'd had a long night—though all nights seemed never ending lately, and blended into my days, resulting in an unhealthy lack of sleep.

Three days now, I counted in my head. It could have been more. I wasn't sure. I reached for the cup of coffee perched on the counter overhead and drank the fuel that did its best to power me through the day. I savored the bitter taste of the coffee, drank black with little sugar, the same way my father prepared his cup every morning up until the day he died.

It was my own way of remembrance, though I would have preferred something cold; the muggy, Miami heat did little in the way of making me crave a hot drink. Even in the dead of winter—February eighth, I noted, after glancing over at the calendar—I'd rather have an ice cold glass of anything.

The sound of an impatient throat clearing drew my attention away from my musings. I peered up to meet the eyes of my employee, and dearest friend, Callie. We had been inseparable for years after meeting each other on the rainy autumn afternoon we'd both moved onto the same block. I remembered the day clearly. Everything had been so much simpler then.

Callie stuck a strand of red hair behind her ear and leaned against the wall, eying the brewing pot of coffee intently, as if it were something of great interest.

"How many pots have you made so far, Piper?" Callie asked. "I keep seeing you suck down cup after cup. You're going to make yourself sick, you know that?"

I smiled. "It's the second pot, and give me a break; I've been here since four in the morning prepping."

It was the way my parents had run things growing up. Waking before the sun had risen, and by the time most of the world was just waking, they were well into their work. Before we had made the move to Miami, we lived on a farm in rural New Jersey with my grandparents. The Monserrat's were immigrants, and hard-working ones at that; I often spent her time in the gardens tending to the vegetables alongside my grandmother, feigning interest while the old woman blathered on about the younger generations and their video games and TV.

Secretly I agreed with her. I never saw the appeal of those things, what most of the children my age adored, and instead retreated to the woods near the water's edge where I watched the stream flow by, crashing against the rocks for hours on end.

Following the first time I witnessed my grandfather slaughter one of the animals, the stream evolved into a different form of calm. I remember envisioning the clear, rushing fluid as the blood that spilled from the wound on his cattle. It was enthralling, watching it flow, sloshing around with a life of its own, that in turn gave me new life.

It wasn't long before I spilled my first blood, a doe that had wandered into my haven, drawn forward by the smell of fruit I'd brought along in a plastic baggie. Curious and hungry, it inched forward cautiously toward my outstretched, berry filled hand. I was quick to notice opportunity and as the animal sniffed at my palm, I leaned forward.

My left hand clutched at a heavy rock off to the side, and with a swift strike, emulating the force exuded by my elder's hand, I cracked the stone on the crown of its skull. The deer erupted then a terrible sound, a cross between an almost human like shriek and a sickening gurgle. I had stared into its eyes, widened and containing a certain sadness that intrigued me then. The animal looked betrayed.

I hit it again.

It stopped shrieking.

I wiped the blood from my face and hands in the stream and continued eating.

"I bet you haven't slept either," Callie said, waving a hand in front of my face, breaking me out of my trance. "You look like it."

I downed the last of my coffee while I blinked, focusing on her concerned face. "Yeah? I didn't think I looked _too_ bad when I left the house this morning."

"As your friend, I have to say, you look like shit," Callie said, her nose wrinkling at my apparent disheveled appearance. "And I think you'd be better off in the back with Ian today. You might scare off the customers looking like that."

"Is that such a bad thing?" I stood, stretching my arms. "We could use a day to relax if you ask me."

Callie nodded in agreement. "Anyway, I wanted you to check on the cake—for the Larson's boy? The mother should be in soon to pick it up. I wanna make sure I got all the details right," Callie smiled sheepishly.

"I'm sure you did," I said, not wanting to move from my spot. The night before had been a long one, full of research the likes of which I hadn't done since high school, and hunting that lasted from my shift the day before, early into the morning. I couldn't deny her the inspection though; after all, this was my business, and with Callie an eager amateur at best, I had to make sure things were done properly.

A beautiful cake brought in money and reflected the bakery well. A standard supermarket block of cheap 'icing' and bland cake did not. I wouldn't stand for less. And neither would my parents, I thought, casting a glance up at the family photo hanging on the wall.

"Alright, lead me to it," I groaned and pushed off the counter, rolling my shoulders while I fell into step behind my shorter friend.

. . .

It was the greatest thing she'd churned out since working here. The colors were vibrant and all of her lines were clean. I commended her on her work and slinked away while Callie discussed over the phone excitedly with one of our customers when to pick up her son's cake. He was turning fourteen apparently, and I wondered why in the hell someone would choose a train theme for a teenage boy. I shrugged away the thought and resumed my usual spot, hunched over the morning paper near the register, ready to greet customers with a charming smile and a warm greeting.

I skipped over the celebrity gossip and uninteresting sports columns and immersed myself in the comics. After a long, stressful night I needed a distraction like a junkie needed a fix. Though, not all luxuries could be afforded; halfway into a Garfield comic the bell rang over the front door and I tucked the paper away. I prepared my cheerful charade and upon meeting the gaze of the new customer, felt my smile falter and my eyes narrow into a suspicious stare.

He approached the counter with a small smile and a cautious air about him. The man kept his hands balled in the pockets of his khakis while he ducked his head down to view the pastries in the glass case. I kept my eye on him; he was playing a dangerous game with me, not to mention leaving himself vulnerable to attack—he had to know by now what I was.

"Everything looks so good; I'm not sure what to get."

All I could see was his light brown hair peeking over the edge of the counter and I held my hands behind my back, resisting the urge to knock him over the head with something heavy. With Callie and Ian in the back, that wasn't a smart choice. So I settled on taking the less violent route with this man, who'd become less a stranger over the past two weeks and more of a hindrance than anything else. The two of us had crossed paths too many times for it to be a mere coincidence, and I wondered if we were after the same person, or if I myself was being targeted.

"Take your time," I answered evenly, "it's a slow morning. No rush."

"What do you recommend?" he stood upright finally, waiting while I listed off various baked goods. He settled on a bagel and coffee.

"Good choice. Say, I've never seen you before," something we both knew was a lie, "what's your name? I have plenty of regulars and you're the first new face, so forgive me for asking."

He waved his hand. "It's fine. I'm Dexter, and you are?"

_Dexter_, I thought. _Has to be a fake name. _

"Piper. It's nice to meet you Dexter." I held my hand out and he took it, returning the firm grasp. "I suspect I'll be seeing you again?"

"What makes you say that?" he raised a brow.

I let go of his hand. "Monserrat's is one of the best bakeries in the area. I've been told our cakes are to die for."

"Really." He said, nodding his head slowly. "I'll have to come back then if that's the case; one of my coworker's birthday is coming up."

"I'll see you soon then."

There was a cold look in his eyes as he backed away toward the front door, leaving me with the promise that we would indeed cross paths once more. Only Dexter knew if our next meeting would be the last, or if the two of us would simply stumble across each other on the hunting grounds we'd silently laid claim to. My heart pounded at the potential danger he presented me with and I made a point to be more cautious than I ever had been.

. . .

There was virtually no traffic on the main roads, making my drive home from the bakery to my apartment complex quick and much easier than I expected it to. The sun was just setting, casting a warm, orange glow onto the harbor as the day came to a close, but I knew my work was far from finished. I turned away from the railing and unlocked the door, expecting to be greeted by the sloppy kisses of my dog, Charlie, and instead was met with silence. Only the droning sound of the old air conditioner could be heard and I shut the door quietly, treading lightly across the hardwood, my hand reaching up under my shirt for the knife I tucked in the waist of my pants.

As I rounded the corner, I gasped as fingers wrapped around the column of my throat and tugged me forward into the darkened hallway, my feet dragging over what I soon discovered was limp body of my dog. I gazed up into familiar green eyes and fought to release myself from the tight grasp he had on my neck. My hand clutched the handle of my knife and swung out, swiping Dexter's chest and shredding the front of his shirt, and before I could sink the blade any deeper, I felt the sharp prick of a needle. Slowly, everything began to fade and I found myself being lowered gently to the floor, unable to move my arms and legs.

He had made good on his promise, I realized, and as my thoughts became less and less coherent, I reluctantly accepted the fact that this was my last night on earth.


	2. Chapter 2

One of the first things that I noticed when I came to was how cold the room had been. I lifted my head as far as I could—something was holding it down—and saw that I had been stripped of my clothing and restrained by multiple layers of saran wrap. A plastic tarp covered the walls of what I quickly realized was the dining room of my apartment. Pictures sat propped up on a folding table before me, the familiar faces of the men I had killed. A reminder of the sins I had committed over the last several years, if they could be called sins at all.

"You're awake finally." Dexter said. The plastic crinkled as he walked across the room to my side.

"I am, and now that I can speak without slurring, can I just tell you how uncomfortable I am with being naked? I usually wait until the third date to undress, and if memory serves me right, we haven't even gone on one."

"If only I could find the words to tell you how sorry I am for making you feel that way." He dragged a blade across my cheek and collected the blood with a dropper. I watched the red dot bloom as he pressed it between two slides. "Unfortunately for you, I don't feel the least bit sorry."

"Well isn't that a shame." I mumbled and looked up to meet his eyes. His face was hidden behind a visor. "You're a meticulous killer, aren't you?"

"It's part of my code." He said. "All of this ensures that I don't get caught, so I can continue taking scum like you off of the streets."

"So you're a vigilante? You and I are of the same brood then." I smiled up at him. "It's nice to finally meet someone like myself, even if you are going to kill me. We could have been friends, Dexter."

"You and I will never be anything." He growled, pressing his finger to my forehead. He pointed to the photos. "Those men had families, and now their lives are shattered because of you."

"And what of you—whose hearts will you be breaking when the time comes and your extracurricular activities have been discovered?" I asked. "Whether you choose to believe it or not, those men deserved to die. They were criminals, each and every one of them."

"None of them had a record. They were innocent." He argued.

"In a city where the police force, not to mention the justice system as a whole, is incredibly incompetent, it isn't hard to slip between the cracks." I said. "And that's exactly what they did. All of them had ties to a specific crime, and if you had the means to research every one of them, then you'd know who I am as well."

The men whose blood I had spilled were stepping stones on a path I had spent the last eight years walking. At the end of it were the ones I had been dying to find and after my last kill, I'd come closer to the end. Just the thought made my heart race.

Dexter stayed quiet.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" I asked. "Come on—I was in the news long enough, surely my face is vaguely familiar."

His eyebrows pinched together. Next to sunshine, murder was a constant in Miami. It was the one thing you could count on seeing and hearing about no matter where you went. So it was no surprise he hadn't recognized me. The media was always showing the face of a grieving loved one and after eight years, I was lost in the mix. My celebrity status faded over time and only once did my name pop up again on the news after one of the men involved in my parent's murder was arrested, and subsequently killed by my own hand.

If I wasn't worried about winding up on death row, I would have sent a letter thanking the local station for giving away his name and face. It was a gesture I wouldn't forget; it set me on the path that lead me here. Then again, considering my current predicament, maybe it wasn't something worth thanking them for.

"Your parents were murdered." Dexter said quietly as the pieces began to fall into place. He peeked up at the display he had made for me, staring at each photo until he realized they were not as they seemed. "This was all revenge for their death."

"And now do you think my actions were justified?" I asked. "Whether they actively took part in ripping my mother and father limb from limb, they're scum, and should have been put down either way."

He considered my words and I considered pleading with him for my life. I had gotten this far and to have it all taken away from me was something I would not allow. There were less than a handful of people left, and once they were done, I hoped that I would be too. But for people like Dexter and I, our work was never truly finished.

Suddenly he drove the knife down and I cringed, awaiting the killing blow, and was relieved to hear the sound of plastic tearing and not skin. The cool air rushed over the now exposed parts of my body and I sat up quickly, only to be held back by Dexter's gloved hand.

"Not so fast." he said. "You and I are after the same person, and this man isn't hiding behind the friendly family man guise. Do you think you're capable of going after him alone?"

"Is this where you try and convince me to back off of _your kill_? Or are you suggesting we become some sort of murderous super couple and go after all the baddies together?" I laughed. "You just tried to kill me. At least let me have my fun and rip this guy's throat out."

While the idea of mutilating that man gave me as much joy as a day out shopping would a normal woman, in truth I was much cleaner than that. In my early days, I had been fixated on giving the same end that my parent's received to anyone I happened to have chained up in my old basement, but I'd like to think I've grown since then.

"He's got connections to the mob. If you go sniffing around someone will notice you, and it won't only be me that will be able to find you."

"But if you kill him on your own you'll come out of that mess unscathed? If I was able to notice you, chances are you aren't much of a ghost yourself." I said. "If you thought you were better suited for this kill, why set me free knowing I'll be right back on his trail?"

"The only person I've ever known able to go this long killing without being caught was me." he said and walked over to the corner of the room. My clothes were tossed onto the end of the table and I began dressing while he collected the head shots.

"That's all well and good, but that doesn't explain why you're letting me go. For all you know I could return the favor."

"Are you threatening me?" Dexter asked, glancing at me over his shoulder.

"Simply stating that it's a possibility. Not a strong one, but a possibility all the same. Typically people don't handle nearly being murdered all that well." I said. "And I happen to be the type that holds grudges. That said, I suppose a thank you is in order for not slitting my throat."

He set the photos back down on the table. "I suppose it is, after all I was nice enough to let you live."

"If you were nice, you wouldn't have made a mess of my home, harmed my pet, or attempted to end my life."

"Be grateful, Piper. This could have turned out much differently."

"We could have spoken about this over coffee. You know, killer to killer." I said.

There was a lull in the conversation that left me uneasy. I was still weary from the drugs and even after regaining full control over my body, Dexter still could have overpowered me if he chose to do so. His knife was tucked into the waist of his pants, the large dark handle pushing the hem of his shirt up slightly. It was within reach, and if I dared to remove the weapon from his possession, he would be one less problem I would have to deal with in the long run.

The thought was tempting, but was nowhere near worth the risk. Dexter proved to be resourceful—he found my business, my home, and the men I had killed—and if he and I joined forces, finding the core group tied to my parent's death would be easier than if I did it on my own.

Not to mention having someone like me at my side. I could fake it long enough to be in Callie's presence and enjoy the time we spent together, but there was nothing more freeing than being in the company of another killer.

"How long have you been after him?" I asked finally, putting an end to the silence that filled the room.

"More than two weeks, give or take." he said. His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I've been working for years to get this close. Don't take it away from me. I need this, more than you do." I said. It was the most honest thing that had come out of my mouth in a long time. The need to spill their blood was stronger than the need to breathe; it was my purpose, and I would fulfill it. "I'm willing to let you help if that's what it takes. You said it was dangerous, and if that's the case, then I might not be able to do it alone."

"Anytime I've ever had a...partner, they turned on me in the end. How do I know you won't do the same? It's more trouble than I could afford." Dexter asked. He looked wary of the idea of teaming up, but what else could resolve the situation? We'd both get what we wanted.

"You don't, but you let me live. So I owe you." I said. "Help me find him and you can take his life. Just as long as I get to be there when he dies."

"What then?"

"Who knows. I'm a serial killer, not a psychic." I slid off the table and held my hand out. "For now, temporary partners?"

After a moment, he took my hand in his own gloved one and shook it. "For now."


End file.
